


She Does This Fing

by Hlessi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fill-a-Thon, Fluff, Gen, Hair, Humor, I don't know what I'm even doing, Kink Meme, Overprotective Dwarves, Short, an attempt at it anyway, very slight Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hlessi/pseuds/Hlessi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nori is not helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Does This Fing

**Author's Note:**

> I did this for the recent fill-a-thon at the kink meme, for [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=735678#t735678).
> 
> What is this, I don't even
> 
> Comments and prompts welcome at [bilboisms.tumblr.com](http://bilboisms.tumblr.com). As you can see, I'll write anything.

So every night when we stops for bed, see, she does this fing. She does this fing where she takes her bedding, and she stuffs it with grass. Yeah, I said grass. She makes herself a heap of the greeny bits, enough green that old split-brow is almost salivatin', and then she throws her blankets over them and tucks the edges under neat as you please, so wot that she's got a tidy little bed. She even folds up her coat, so that she's got a tidy little pillow.

Then she sits in her shrubbery, niminy-piminy, and she pulls out a comb.

It's a neat little comb. Like her neat little self. Some flimflam wood, even if the silver tastes pure. Nice for ladies, but not too nice. Could prob'ly go for as much as—doesn't matter.

Anyway, she sits in her shrubbery and she pulls out a comb and then she combs herself down from head to toe.

I'm not exaggeratin'. Honest. I've seen this with me own eyes. I see it every night when we stops for bed. It wasn't like I was looking for it, you hear, I wasn't spyin', she just _does_ it right out in the open. I didn't go looking. Ask anyone.

She starts with the hair of her head and ooo, that's nice to see. That lovely hair, so fick and curly, you wouldn't think a wood comb could get frough it, you'd think you'd need a good metal or even stone, but no, it's so soft and so easy that the wood teeth fair _sing_ frough that hair, I mean the comb practic'ly sighs in her hand, that's how sweet her hair is. The sort of hair that cries out for looking.

When her hair is loose and soft against her neck and shoulders—aaa—then she pulls the rest of it over one shoulder and _Mahal bleedin' wept_ , did I tell you she's got that hair down to the small of her back? No? Well, she does, I'm tellin' you now, and there's more'n some folk I know who'd give their eye teeth for that hair. Hair that a man can wind round his fist and feel the weight of. Hair that catches the light and breathes in the dark.

Well, she pulls that hair over her shoulder and she tames it much as she can with that mettlesome wood comb, and when she's done she pulls the hair into three parts and she puts it into a braid as fick as my wrist. No, it's _true_. Fick as my _wrist_. Old fusspot almost fainted dead away.

So there she is, face scrubbed and hair dressed, when she wiggles—oh me—back into her shrubby bed and brings her _feet_ up for combing.

Then old filth jumps up and punches young stubbles right in his moony eye.

The lads are gettin' the worst of it, I can tell you. Our squeaker's too shy and nannied to get into trouble, but goldilocks and whiskers are a different matter. If bully-man clouts 'em too many more times, dented heads will bring on mushy brains and they'll have to be taken out of the succession entire and then Herself will have us hung up by the nadgers. Which wouldn't be fair, mind you, as it was King Nob who brought the fisty madness on his coz in the first place.

He shouldn't have said what he said is all. I know he's my king, but he shouldn't have said what he did. It was rude. More, it was _stupid_ , it was like he didn't even _see_ the old brute standing behind her. One hundred eighty years and you'd think he'd have some grasp of his cousin's nature. You'd think he'd know better than to look a lass right in the eye and insult her to her face where the nutter could see it. It's a head-shaker.

His nibs's been broody since. There's no bearin' him. The sons of Fundin try talking him round, but he won't have it.

“Ye still sulkin,'” the baldy head will say

“My _eye_ ,” will say the king.

Then the heavy, brutish head swings round and he growls _“Ye had it comin'.”_

And as there's not so many in the world or under it that would go on bleatin' when Son of Fundin the Younger curls his lip like that, or at least not so many living, not even His Stroppiness, that's the end of that. Fundin's get is a Longbeard from beard to balls, but he's also a big twat who uses his fists more than his brains. Him bein' him, and Thrain's son bein' Thrain's son, there's been more than one occasion when the king has come away from a chat with both eyes blacked courtesy of the axe-fondler's short temper and his own hasty mouth.

Still, this with the burglar, now. This is new. Tetchy as he is, it's curious he'd take so against someone he's barely met, 'specially someone as harmless as the lass. Meself, I can't see that she's done anything to offend, or at least nothing that deserves such treatment from one she is proposin' to follow into a dragon's lair. Perhaps 'tis only she's the wizard's creature, but why should she be punished for that?

Unless I am readin' this all wrong.

“He's besotted,” I says, just to try it out.

The old woman glares at me, disturbed from his tea. “Who's besotted.”

I cast my eye toward the king, who's sittin' by himself in the shade pretending he's not watchin' her coo over yon bow-twanger, who himself is enjoying bein' petted so much that he don't see doom in the shape of a large relative approachin'.

“No,” says that worrier, “no, that's—” He stops. He looks bemused.

“But he's been so cruel to her,” peeps our scribbler, eyes wide.

The faffer and I have a rare glance between us.

“He's too old for her,” he says, with some finality.

“Oh, right,” says I, “of course. He's too old for her. Once we explain that, I'm sure he'll unbesot himself straight off.”

We three look over at our fearless leader, who, to our freshly understandin' eyes, is not so much keeping a watchful vigil over his company as he is skulkin' and sulkin' in the dark because he don't know how to talk to wimmin. Now that I am looking again, his expression as he watches the oversized tit he calls cousin drag his sister's younger accident away from the burglar is not so much that of a disapproving authority as it is the sullen resentment of a sad old muppet jealous of a violent lunatic.

Across the fire, old hatstand and kegbelly are observing the brewin' tragedy over their pipes. The quack is diggin' in his pack for whatever's good for a well-earned concussion. Meanwhile, old scrambled-brains catches my attention with a roll of his eyes at Himself and a gesture that heats even these weathered ears.

“He's too old for her,” I says to him, scandalized.

“Who's too old?” asks the red menace, who's just sat down near us with his own pipe.

He follows my nod. It takes a moment or four, because he's fick, but then his face swells with outrage. His hand goes to his locket (gold-plated, no lie) as if he's havin' visions of empty cradles and open windows.

This looks like a good time to excuse meself.


End file.
